


Christmas at the Foyles

by DestielsDestiny



Series: A Deveraux No Longer [1]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Backstory, Christmas, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Fred Deacon - Freeform, Gen, Post The Hide, Second Chances, Short One Shot, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Fred Deacon has not eaten a home cooked Christmas dinner since 1938. He misses it. Them.





	Christmas at the Foyles

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Relates to the season 6 episode the Hide. Will eventually be part of a larger series.

Captain Frederick Deacon was invalided out of North Africa in May of 1944. It was five years to the day since he had last seen his family, and three years almost to the day since a Doodle Bug destroyed his family home, and took his family with it. 

He has been back in London three days when his fiancé of nearly seven years leaves him. He finds it hard to hold it against her, looking as he does. And even without everything else, she has spent half a decade engaged to a man who was on the other side of the world. 

There is not much cause for anyone to celebrate the Christmas of ’44, and thus it isn’t until December of 1945, the war months over, no matter what date you were counting from, and his family and friends still as long dead as they were last year in the invalid ward, that Deacon finally has time to truly take stock. 

When he does, he drinks all of the brandy in his flat, in measured doses, careful not to poison himself accidentally-or deliberately-and then goes back to work. 

His grandmother used to say the Deacon family mantra was, “We carry on, no matter the weather.” A long line of fishermen, interspersed with the occasional smuggler and gambler, his entire clan had been suitably horrified when young Fred had declared his intention to study the law. 

But it comes in useful, that mantra, he’s always found. 

It helps that the law stops for no one, not even Old Saint Nic. 

It does not help that his mother used to make the best Christmas pies around. Everyone said so. 

It does not help that his father loved to decorate the tree. Or that his little sister always knew exactly what item of warm clothing he had warn through in the previous winter. 

It does not help that he misses them. 

00

Deacon eyed the stack of forms with a sigh, and reached for another requisition. The third floor was out of pencils. Wonderful. 

Apparently, even crime took a holiday during the holidays. 

Fred was contemplating the window thoughtfully-they were on the first floor, and there was a thin layer of snow outside. His sister had loved the snow-when a noise sounded out in the corridor, a step perhaps. Deacon frowned. There was no one in the building today but him, as far as he knew. 

A knock sounded at the door. Deacon eyed the window again. 

Knock. Knock. 

Fred considered calling the police briefly. It had been a frigid walk in this morning, and he was not feeling remotely up to holding off burglars. 

Although it would be a good way to get rid of these forms. 

“Burglars don’t usually knock on the door silly.” For a moment, it was as if his sister was right there beside him. Fred swallowed hard. 

Knock. Knock. The window was out apparently. 

Fred frowned. There was something hesitant about that knock, something tentative. 

Something distinctly unburglar-like. 

Fred rose with a distinct groan, his weight bearing down on his cane, his knuckles clenched white on wood already rubbed smooth. 

If crossing to the door of his office was painful, opening it nearly gave him a heart attack. 

The hair was neater, the build more filled out, the eyes brighter and the clothes infinitely sharper, but there was no mistaking the nervous energy of the young man hovering on his office doorstep. 

“Mr. Devereaux?” Fred had never stuttered in his life, but there was no disguising the incredulity in his tone. As a criminal defense lawyer, it was not exactly usual to encounter his clients after the cases had finished, even the odd innocent one. 

Well, James Devereaux was his first definite one on that front, but Deacon remained hopeful for a repeat one day. 

The man cracked a lopsided smile. “It’s Jack, if you’d prefer, Mr. Deacon.” 

It was subtle, but Fred had never seen a man undergo a transition as complete as this, from living corpse to grinning youth. It was nearly miraculous. 

Considering the date, Deacon had no compunctions about choking on his own thought. 

It had been a long time since he had even entertained believing in miracles. 

Jack hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes finally meeting Deacon’s properly. “Um, well, see the fact is that,” a pause, “the fact is Mr. Deacon that, well, my father and I were wondering. That is, we wished to invite you to Christmas lunch. At our house. Today, that is.” 

Fred stared. Part of him was attempting to picture Sir Charles making Christmas stuffing. Part of him was still attempting to parse out all the hesitations. And part of him was just stunned. 

It had been nearly eight years since anyone had invited him over for Christmas. 

Since he had had anyone to invite him over. 

“Mr. Deacon?” Deacon blinked at the hopeful-yes, that was genuine hopefulness right there-expression turned his way. 

“Your father?” It seemed the only logical reply, and Fred Deacon had always been the most logical of men. It usually went along nicely with law, he had always found. This being one of the few occasions when it didn’t. 

There was no hesitation this time. “Right, sorry about that. I meant Mr. Foyle…my father, Mr. Foyle.” Fred blinked. And then blinked again. 

That…made an extraordinary amount of sense. And now that the connection had been made, well…that gentle smile was rather distinctive, wasn’t it. 

Fred considered his stack of forms. He looked at his narrow window, close to the ground. He thought about his sister, and how much she had loved today. It was her favourite holiday. 

He looked back at a man he had done nothing to try to save, offering him a hopeful smile and what promised to be a truly miraculous story. 

And for the first time in nearly eight years, Fred Deacon found something to smile about. 

It pulled on his scars, that smile, but the pain felt good somehow. Because he knew he was alive. 

“It would be my pleasure…Mr. Foyle.” 

00

Lunch turned into dinner, and snow turned it into an overnight stay. Fred knew he would have to leave at some point, but tucked up warm and cozy in front of the fire, nibbling on a mince pie and watching Christopher attempt to teach Jack the finer points of cribbage, Fred personally hoped that the snow would stay a bit longer. He was doing fine, right where he was. 

And besides, someone had invited him to spend Christmas with their family, and he was actually having a good time. 

And that right there was nothing short of miraculous.


End file.
